The Second Deadly Sin (21 page)

She has been longing and longing for him, but he has not even written to her.

The human heart is a remarkable thing, she thinks.

Then it dawns on her that she has forgotten her cardigan in the classroom. You scatterbrain! she tells herself.

Two hearts are searching for love. They find it. Abandon themselves to love. Make love. Almost die in ecstasy. But she cannot cope with her next thought. That he has found somebody else. Had his fill of her love, fallen asleep, woken up and wandered off, keen to find somebody different.

That doesn’t have to be the case, she assures herself. There can be no end of different explanations.

The whole world is arming itself. Managing Director Hjalmar Lundbohm exports iron ore to the U.S.A. and Canada. And of course also to the biggest armoury in Europe: Krupps, in Germany. Sweden is neutral, and sells goods to anybody who is able to pay for them. No doubt he has been working day and night. He has been away
since August 14. That day church bells rang in Kiruna non-stop, just as they did in every other Swedish town. A message of defiance, to announce that Sweden was ready to defend itself against any possible attack. The sirens at the mine also sounded from morning till night. Several conscripts climbed aboard the train together with Lundbohm. The sobs of women and children mingled with the tolling and the laughter. Elina went down to the railway station to say goodbye. He was in high spirits. He said that he was likely to be away for a long time. But when he saw the look on her face, he promised to write. He promised.

Not a line. Her first reaction was Good Lord, this was not surprising. Some people were already calling the war a world war. But then she thought that if he was longing for her, if he really loved her, he would not be able to prevent himself from writing – he would spend the nights writing to her instead of sleeping. Then she thought that he could go to hell. Who did he think he was? And why should she wait? There were others. Almost every day she found letters outside the door of her and Lizzie’s flat. All kinds of prospective boyfriends inviting her for coffee and walks.

The next time he comes back to Kiruna he will find her walking arm in arm with somebody else! And if he wants to meet her, she will be busy preparing her lessons so he can sit at home and mope.

She has tried not to worry about it, attended various clubs, and read a lot, of course. Lizzie often wants her to read aloud. “Please read something to me while I do the washing up,” she says. She has even accompanied Lizzie to the Domestic Servants’ Club, and to Salvation Army meetings to listen to the band.

Lizzie is glad of the company. Her fiancé, Johan-Albin, adores Lizzie, but he refuses to accompany her to the Domestic Servants’ Club or to church. There are limits, he says.

*

But so much for all her intentions. Here she is, almost running along the street without a cardigan.

It is like what it says in the Bible. She is like the woman in the Song of Solomon. The woman who wanders around the city searching for her beloved, despite the fact that the watchmen beat her and mock her. “I will rise now and go about the city in the streets and in the broad ways. I will seek him whom my soul loveth.” Over and over again she says: “I am sick with love.”

That’s the way it is. That’s love. A sickness in the blood.

She slows down as she approaches Lundbohm’s house. A pulse shoots through her when she catches sight of him. Like when a salmon trout prepares to pounce: a shooting pain that passes through her whole body. It is that treacherous love which resides inside her, that is what makes her heart beat faster. Then comes another pulse, but this time of fear: Manager-in-Chief Fasth is standing there as well, talking to Lundbohm. She hasn’t seen Fasth since the crayfish party. Afterwards she had told Lizzie about what happened, and was duly warned: “Keep well away from him, I beg of you; he’s dangerous.” Standing a few paces away is Johansson, principal of the children’s home, waiting his turn to talk to Lundbohm.

Fasth is the first to see her, as Lundbohm is standing with his back towards her. She walks towards them as slowly as she can, and only when she is up close does she acknowledge them with a slight nod of the head.

Lundbohm exclaims: “fröken Pettersson!”, and all three touch the brim of their hats – well, not Johansson as he happens to be wearing a grey knitted cap, which he tugs at slightly awkwardly. But in any case, she has already passed them with her aching heart, which is pounding and thumping with both love and fear.

Now she has to restrain herself from running away.

Don’t run, she says sternly to her body, and she can feel their eyes on her back. Don’t run. Don’t run.

*

Fasth alternates his gaze between Elina and Lundbohm. So that’s how it is. She parades past like a streetwalker without a cardigan or a jacket in order to display her slim waist and ample breasts. And that mop of blonde hair. But Lundbohm – he just stands there in front of Fasth, waiting for him to continue talking. Does this mean the little affair is over? If so, the field is clear. Now that the wolf and the bear have eaten their fill, it’s the turn of the raven and the fox.

Run, rabbit, run, he thinks, contemplating the swinging of her waist and bottom. Run, run, run.

*

That evening a messenger boy comes with a note to Elina.

She only sees the words “dearest Elina”. Reads the word “dearest” over and over again. Then she hurries off to his apartment. Yes. She is sick with love. Even before dessert they find themselves in bed.

And she asks no questions. Do you love me? Are you fond of me? What is to become of us?

But she looks at him. He is sleeping as if somebody had hit him
hard on the head. If only he had chatted to her for a while, as they used to do. If only he had whispered that he loved her, and then fallen fast asleep like a child in her arms. No, he simply turned over on his back and fell asleep like a shot. She gets up and washes her private parts. Goes back to bed. Contemplates him a while longer. It’s impossible to sleep.

Her thoughts are like gravel. She breathes in gravel with every breath she takes. Soon the whole of her is nothing more than a pile of grey slag from the mine. He doesn’t love her. She means nothing to him.

In the end she gets dressed and goes home in the middle of the night. He sleeps on.

*

A layer of ice is now covering Lake Luossajärvi. It thickens quickly in the middle of a cold night like this one. It crackles and rumbles. The Lapps have a special word for this.
Jåmidit
, when the ice sings and rumbles even without anybody walking on it.

All the way home Elina can hear the sad singing of the ice in her ears; it is sobbing, crackling and sighing.

“Pretty sure,” said Marianne Aspehult at Be-We’s, pointing at the passport photograph of Jocke Häggroth. “Well, absolutely certain, in fact. He sometimes shops here, but I don’t remember if he’s bought a top-up card in the past week or so.”

Mella looked around the shop. Very pleasant indeed. She had never set foot in it before, although it had been here forever.

Aspehult looked at the photographs of the two men who Sivving had said owned a fishing hut in the Abisko area.

“Well, it’s possible that they also shop here now and then, but I don’t recall having seen them. But I don’t think … no.”

Mella nodded.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I really must ask you,” Aspehult said. “Has this got anything to do with the murder in Kurravaara?”

Mella shook her head apologetically.

“No, of course not,” Aspehult said. “Take a few goodies if you fancy anything. Or an evening paper.”

People are so nice, Mella thought as she left the shop. Helpful and kind. Most of them don’t spend their time killing their neighbours.

Then she rang von Post. It was time to bring in Häggroth for questioning.

Martinsson drove down to Jukkasjärvi. Sol-Britt’s son Matti had been employed by the ice workshop linked to the Ice Hotel.

That was where they sawed up blocks of ice to use when they began building the hotel every winter, provided the sculptors with blocks from which they created their sculptures, and carved patterns into the ice in accordance with their instructions, using special machines. They also made drinking glasses out of ice, plates of ice, everything you could think of that could be used in the Ice Hotel when the tourists started arriving.

It was like an ordinary workshop: the sound was the same, the rasping and roaring of saws and drills. The big difference was the cold.

I ought to have brought my quilted jacket, she thought.

Martinsson eventually tracked down Hannes Karlsson. He was the one who had found Matti Uusitalo after he had been run over. The records of the inquiry were somewhat scanty, but it had said that they had been workmates.

Karlsson was working with a small saw. He was making five-centimetre-long polished crystals of ice.

When he saw her approaching, he took off his protective goggles and earmuffs.

“These will become part of a cut-glass chandelier – but instead of glass it will be made of ice. We make all the individual pieces with the ice we have in store. Then the artists and the interior decorators
will apply the finishing touches. We’re waiting for winter to come now, so we can build the hotel itself. When it’s finished I usually move up to Björkis and work there when the skiing season begins.”

He had a close-clipped black beard and was still suntanned. He looked strong, despite his thin, sinewy body. He regarded Martinsson with unconcealed interest.

He’s one of those adventurous souls, Martinsson thought. Someone who drives dog teams and goes canoeing down waterfalls. One of those restless types.

“Let’s go somewhere more comfortable,” he said with a nod of the head that indicated he realised she was feeling the cold. “It’s time I took a break anyway.”

“It was a terrible tragedy,” he said when they had installed themselves in the coffee room with a mug each. “It’s three years now since Matti was run over and killed. Marcus was four. If Sol-Britt hadn’t been there … And now … A terrible tragedy, as I said … How is he?”

“I can’t really judge that,” Martinsson said. Then she took a sip of coffee and continued. “One of the police officers is looking after him. Matti and you were workmates, is that right?”

“It certainly is.”

“Can you tell me about … you know, when Matti … It was you who found him, I gather.”

“Yes, of course. I thought you’d been asking Sol-Britt about that.”

She waited patiently.

“What can I say? He died while he was doing his regular jog. Three mornings a week he used to run all the way from Kurra to Kiruna. He’d have a shower and get changed at my place – I lived in Kiruna at that time – and then he’d join me in the car and I’d drive out to Jukkas. In the afternoon, after work, he’d run back home from my place.”

“Was it always the same days of the week?”

“Yep! Monday, Thursday and Friday.”

Martinsson nodded encouragingly.

“What can I say?” he said again. “It was a Thursday. We had to finish work on stuff to send to the ice bar in Copenhagen, so we didn’t want to be late. There was no sign of him. I got a bit impatient and rang. Sol-Britt answered. And she was worried because he’d set off ages ago and ought to have arrived at my place by then. I called work and told them I was going to be late, and then I drove all the way to Kurravaara. Still no sign of him. I drove back – and then I saw him: it was on that side of the road that he was lying. In the bushes. It was early summer, so the leaves were still quite small – if it had been high summer I’d never have seen him. He’d been sent flying quite a long way from the road. Why are you asking about this?”

“I don’t know, I just have a funny feeling in my stomach.” Martinsson made an attempt to laugh. “But maybe it’s just something I’ve eaten.”

“Maybe I’ve eaten the same thing … You know, I thought it was a bit odd. It was in the middle of a straight stretch of road. Broad daylight. And he was wearing a reflective jacket. But let’s face it, there are drunks, and drivers as high as kites, and others who fall asleep at the wheel. I asked the police if they were intending to check all the cars in Kurravaara. They were; but you know what it’s like in the villages – everybody knows which of the old blokes definitely shouldn’t have driving licences but are out on the road anyway, half blind and half asleep. And everybody knows who drives into Kiruna at that unearthly hour in the morning, half past six – there aren’t very many. ‘Check up on the obvious suspects,’ I said. There can’t be all that many of them, I thought. But they didn’t. ‘If we have a suspect,’ they said. But they just wrote it off. A hit-and-run accident.”

He stood up and fetched some more coffee for both of them.

“I actually ferreted around in Kurravaara myself. I suppose I was in shock after finding him, but I didn’t understand that. I took a few days’ leave from work – Göran said I didn’t need a sick note or anything like that. We were all in a bit of a state. And we thought about the young lad. I mean, everybody knew that Sol-Britt …”

He held a pretend glass in his hand and mimed emptying it in one gulp.

“. . . and we thought that she wouldn’t be able to look after him. We knew that his mother didn’t want anything to do with him. Matti had a hell of a time with her. He thought she would want to meet her son now and then, you know – a week in the summer, at least. But no. She simply washed her hands of him. Her own bloody son. But Sol-Britt pulled herself together. Somehow or other. When the police had talked to me and it became obvious that they weren’t going to lift a finger to … Well, I got into my own car and did the rounds in Kurravaara. I asked somebody I know down there about who sets off for work early, and who’s not fit to drive a car but does so nevertheless. I checked at least ten cars. I was looking for a dent, or for a car that had been thoroughly washed and cleaned …”